The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (15 page)

I’ll bet
, I thought. But I saved the message.

I made a second round of hospital, jail, and morgue calls, just in case, but there was still no sign of Clara, alive or dead.

I jumped in the shower, finishing with a bracing ice-water chaser. I toweled off and put on a cotton kimono, cinching it tight, like a shield. Time to address myself more rigorously to the task at hand: finding out exactly what kind of mess I’d landed myself in, and then finding out who was on the other end of this particular knotted string of karma, so I could maybe, maybe locate Clara Fuentes for my client. I had never before failed so miserably on a misper case, for so many hours in a row.

I began by applying myself to the actual mess in my living room. Having film crews on the premises is effectively like inviting a series of earthquakes into your home. It’s no doubt a by-product of my monastic training, but I can’t think if I’m surrounded by chaos. Anyway, the act of cleaning is itself one of my best investigative tools. Just the simple back-and-forth motion of pushing a mop across a wooden floor often generates
aha
moments for me. So I mopped, and I mopped. And I mopped some more, until I threw down the mop in frustration. The handle hit the floor with a bang.

Tank yowled and leapt from the windowsill.

“Sorry, buddy,” I said. “I feel like I’m running in increasingly smaller circles here.”

Tank responded by licking his right paw and drawing it over his face like a washcloth.

“I already showered.”

He strolled to the kitchen door and brushed his body up against it.

“Good idea,” I said. Call me crazy, but I knew exactly what he was saying, although the psychic communication between me and my cat was one secret I would take with me into the bardo realm and beyond.

I changed into my riding gear, packed a water bottle and a few snacks into a small, insulated nylon case that doubled as a bike pack, and grabbed my helmet out of the closet. Soon I was slipping and sliding along the gravel drive on my 21-speed, all-terrain cruiser. An exhilarating half-hour of downhill racing later, I braked to a halt in the parking lot at Zuma Beach. I locked my bike to a pole and took off along the packed sand, beginning with a measured jog.

I reviewed the past 16 hours of insanity.
Something …
An idea was niggling at me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was.

The beach was deserted. After a quarter-mile, I hid my bike case and shoes behind a bleached and peeling log about 15 yards from the water and burned another quarter-mile at a faster clip. I then emptied every ounce of energy I had into a final sprint to the end of the cove. I wheeled left and pelted into the ocean up to my thighs. The shock of cold bit into my leg muscles. I turned and sprinted back onto the sand, angling upward until I again reached the fallen log. Retrieving my belongings, I started back at a steady trot.

Something Heather had said …

As I rounded the last curve of beach, I drew up short. Two men were standing near my bike in the parking lot. They were several hundred yards away, so I couldn’t make out much detail, except for the fact that they were physically big. Really big. One man handed a pair of binoculars to the other, who aimed them directly at me. Not good.

I wanted to waggle my fingers, or maybe make a different statement with just one of them, but that didn’t seem like a smart way to go. Instead, I quickened the pace to full speed, my heels spitting divots of damp sand.

As I closed in on the pair, they responded by lumbering across the lot to a familiar-looking black van, a Ford. They climbed inside and accelerated toward the exit. I managed to read the license number: industrial plates. I couldn’t quite decipher the logo on the side; the van was too far away. There were three initials, but the design was quite small, with an even smaller phrase printed underneath. I mentally recited the license plate as I fished a pen out of my bike case. I jotted the sequence of numbers and letters on the back of my hand.

My ribs were heaving. I thumbed Bill on my speed dial.

“What? I’m on my way into a meeting. We can’t keep meeting like this, Ten.”

“… run a plate … me?” I gasped.

“Slow down,” he said. “As a guy I know likes to say: breathe.”

I steadied my breath and tried again. “I really need you to run a plate for me. A van. Commercial, I think.”

“Ah,” he said. “Sorry, but no. I’m too busy massaging crime statistics.” Bill spent most of his time now attending meetings, pressing the flesh, and managing data. His newer, safer job came with a daily dose of mind-numbing, energy-draining bureaucracy. “Use that fancy service you subscribe to.”

“I’m on my bike. And there’s no time. Please?”

“The magic word,” he said. “Fine. I’ll get to it after the powwow.”

I guess he must have heard my loud silence, because he said, “Okay, okay. Jesus. What’s the number?”

I read it off the back of my hand.

“Let me switch to my other line to make a call. Gimme thirty seconds.”

I counted through five impatient breath cycles.

Finally, Bill was back. “It’s commercial, part of a permanent fleet.”

“Who’s it registered to?”

“Some business called GTG Services, Incorporated. Their headquarters is downtown. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks,” I said. I meant it. I was sure that the black van was either the same vehicle or the identical twin of the one I’d passed on Mac Gannon’s private road, on my way to meet with Bets McMurtry. I finally had a lead of sorts, though where it led to I had no idea.

“I owe you a beer,” I added.

“Yes, you do. And if I don’t get to my meeting, you’ll owe me a job.”

C
HAPTER
10

I pedaled home in record time, my normally sluggish uphill pace fueled by the information from Bill. I had a name, and in a moment I would have an address. I’d put in a second call from the Zuma lot, this one to Mike. My personal data-jockey was on the hunt as I powered up Topanga Canyon Boulevard.

For the second time today, I blasted my skin with cold water. Before my cropped hair was even dry, Mike called back.

“Okay, boss. Here’s what I got. GTG Services, Incorporated, is like one of those freshwater polyps—you know, a hydra: one head, a shitload of tentacles. Not just here, either. These suckers—pun intended—reach statewide and into a few other states as well.”

“But the headquarters are downtown, right?”

“Right. I can see the building from my living-room window.” Mike and his live-in girlfriend occupied a spacious loft downtown, filled with DJ and electronic equipment and little else. “You know that tall, skinny rectangle on Wilshire?”

“With all the black glass?”

“That’s the one. The Aon. Sixty-two floors, but the lobby counts as two. Somewhere on the sixty-first, or penthouse floor, is GTG, the hydra’s nerve center, you might say.”

“So they own the van?”

“Vans, plural. Over a hundred statewide, maybe twenty-five of them here in L.A.”

“What business are they in?”

“You’re not listening.
Businesses
, plural. As in, what service business aren’t they in? It’s all GTG, but they switch up the slogan depending on the service rendered. Here’s the shortlist: ‘GTG Services: We Bring Healthy to You.’ That one’s medical supplies. ‘GTG Services: We Bring Safe to You’—barbed wire, chain link fences, et cetera. That little offshoot took off post-nine-eleven and lately has expanded to all the states that border Mexico. Wonder why. Let’s see, what else? ‘GTG Services: We Bring Clean to You.’ Some kind of very high-end maid service. And then …”

“Stop,” I said, crossing to my computer desk, phone to my ear. “That’s the one. Can you follow that tentacle?”

I heard mad tapping on the other end of the line. Mike started humming off-key, under his breath, which was a very good sign. “Interesting,” he said. “Their office is based in the cracked-out broken heart of East L.A.”

“Gangland?”

“Exactamundo.”

“Got an address?”

“Does one hand clapping in a forest make noise?” Sometimes I think Mike’s mind is solely populated by Zen meta-masters spouting confused koans.

Mike gave me an address in Boyle Heights, not that far from Los Gatos Cantina of ceviche fame.

“So, boss,” he said, “got any idea who’s behind this thing?”

I admitted I didn’t.

“Okay, well, let me know when you do. I’ve accessed their business slogans and addresses galore, but the actual identities of G, T, and G are in data lockdown. You know how I much I fucking hate firewalls. Ciao.” The last thing I heard before he hung up was the peel of a pop-top, probably belonging to Mike’s sixth Red Bull of the day.

I stared at the two addresses in front of me. Unless I could do a fast clone of myself, I was faced with a hard choice: Do I post watch at the head of the hydra? Or do I start my surveillance by tracking down the tentacle that recently crawled into view? I flipped and flopped until a brilliant third possibility came to me: I could eat something and then decide.

I was inhaling my latest invention, “Greek” pizza—warm pita layered with black olive spread, creamy hummus, and tart tzatziki, topped with a heap of chopped and olive oil–drizzled tomatoes, feta, cucumbers, and avocado—when my business line rang. I glanced at the caller ID, instantly suspicious. I had just deleted seven more useless, annoying requests from the message center. I smiled. This caller was from my past, and someone I was happy to reconnect with.

“Ten, my man! I just heard your story on the radio. Almost crashed my car. You’re more gangsta than Diddy!”

“Hi, Clancy.”

“Too bad I quit being a pap—I’d be all over your Tibetan ass right now.”

We shared a laugh. I pictured his wide smile and coffee-colored skin, topped with a crown of black dreadlocks.

“How’s the private eye business?” I asked. “You official yet?” Clancy had helped enormously with the Marv Rudolph case last year, multitasking as both paparazzo and amateur investigator. In return, I’d finagled a way for him to get that elusive freelance photographer’s prize known as the “money shot”—an exclusive, preferably forbidden snapshot of a major celebrity doing something unusual. Gossip sites hand over tens of thousands of dollars for a money shot, and paparazzi live to take one. Clancy had used the windfall from his photograph of megastar Keith Connor embracing a mystery woman—Heather, long story—to pay off his student loans, get ahead on his mortgage, and quit a job he’d come to loathe. The last I’d heard Clancy was in the process of getting a P.I. license for himself. It turns out the skill sets necessary for both paparazzi and private eyes are startlingly similar.

“Nah. Still interning,” Clancy said. “I’m on’y fifteen hundred hours into my three thousand. You got off easy, bein’ a cop and all.”

“Yeah, well, now you know why so many ex-cops are private investigators. If police hours didn’t count and we had to clock three thousand working under someone else, we’d never make it.”

“Right. Well, I’m gettin’ there, little by little. Some dude in Glendora’s my supervisor. I musta sent out fifty résumés; he’s the only P.I. called me in. All he did—looked me over, walked outside to my ride and looked
it
over, then handed me a list of hardware I needed: digital camera, laptop, like that. All of it I already had, except puttin’ the tint on my windows. He had me doin’ surveillance on some dude with a bogus liability claim the next day.”

“Wow. Good for you.”

“Pay’s for shit, but it’s steady. Or was. Things are slow right now in the slip-and-fall world, don’t ask me why. How about you? Did you really off those two guys?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said.

“What was that like?”

“I don’t recommend it.” My voice was clipped.

“I feel you,” Clancy said, after a short silence. “Well, I just wanted to say ‘hey.’ See how you were. Let’s keep in touch, a’ right?”

“You got it,” I said.

I hung up. A minute later, the lightbulb went on, and I was speed-dialing Clancy back. I didn’t need to look any farther; the solution to my surveillance dilemma had actually just found me: Clancy Williams, recovering paparazzo and P.I.-in-training.

“Yo.”

“Me again,” I said. “I might have a job for you, Clancy. Surveillance.”

“For real? When?”

“Now, actually.” I checked the time. “Can you meet me downtown in an hour? I could really use your help.”

“I’m there.”

I gave him the Boyle Heights address. “Park two blocks south, on East Cummings Street.”

“I’m there,” he said again. “Look for a sweet gangsta ride with tinted windows … Oh, wait: Boyle Heights. Never mind. I’ll look for you.”

Using my computer, I printed out a business label, attached it to a manila envelope, stuffed it with three empty sheets of paper, and sealed it. Then I crossed to the bedroom and grabbed several $100 bills from the envelope of cash locked in my closet safe, along with my gun, binoculars, Dodgers cap, and new camera—a Canon EOS 1-D Mark IV, identical to Clancy’s. Before I left, I made two more calls. The first was to Mac’s cell. I finally had something to report. I got his voice mail again. Maybe he’d caught the news and was avoiding me. I didn’t leave a message. The second was to Heather. She picked up immediately.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hay is for horses,” she answered, her voice teasing.

“I can’t talk,” I said. “But I forgot to say something before. I don’t think you should come over here right now.”

“Okaaay …” Her tone had cooled noticeably.

“No, not that,” I said. “I just … I don’t think it’s safe yet, that’s all.”

“Is this even open for discussion?”

“Heather …”

“Oh, great: now you’re Heather-ing me.”

That tone had crept into Heather’s voice, a sour, dull tone I interpreted as “I’m unhappy and it’s your fault. You’re not meeting my expectations.” It usually led to information I didn’t want, like a wet newspaper landing with a thud on my doorstep.

Heather’s sigh matched my own.

“I just … I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Call me to tell me you can’t talk.”

The irritation crept from my shoulders to my jaws. I tamped it down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought it was important.”